The Edge of Revolution
by cynicalgirl77
Summary: An upper-class witch tries to assert her independence from her family's expectations, figure out her love life, find a place for herself in the old-fashioned all-male world of wizarding politics and simply graduate from Hogwarts.DracoOC


Disclaimer: I own neither the Potterverse, nor any characters so far besides the Conway family. I also horde quotes, but I credit them much in the fashion of Cassie Claire, at the end of the document.

**Chapter One:**

_The Only Things I'll Read are Faces_

No one ever talks about the nasty bits that come with the glamor of being born into the wizarding upper class. No, Harry Potter, isn't the only one who had a difficult home life as a child. I'm not saying that I grew up in Communist Russia or anything, just that my life isn't what it seems. I'm still happy enough; I wouldn't want to trade my life for anyone's. It's just that it could be easier at times.

The summer before my sixth year at Hogwarts was not one of those times. My family, the Conways, by name, was invited by our old friends the Malfoys to spend a week in the country with them at their country estate. A few other top Ministry families were invited, among them the Fudge family and the Bagmans. Fudge was unmarried, or at least that's what he called it, but really his wife left him. This was fairly common in politics, as I understand it. Skilled politicians are, as a rule, eccentric characters, and hard to live with. It should be noted that Cornelius Fudge is not a skilled politican, but people who think that they're more than they are are also hard to live with.

We were a motley crew, so to speak. Fudge's approval ratings had steadily been dropping over the last six months, now drawing perilously close to the percentage necessary for an election. This anxiety caused him to drink excessively, which in turn negatively affected his behavior and job performance, causing his ratings to drop. What a vicious cycle. The Bagmans, on the other hand, were a plump, merry family of three, with a chubby and red-faced son about six years older than Draco and I. He was pleasant enough to be around, and had a low-level job in the ministry, a deputy undersecretary or something. He wasn't very interesting, though.

We arrived on a sweltering day late in July. It was uncharacteristically humid for so early in the summer, but my mother, even after traveling here by floo powder, looked impeccably composed and carried herself as though she was royalty. My father, an ex-Minister of Magic, walked somewhat fluidly, as though he had great authority over this great manor. He simply exuded authority. His actions always seemed so calculated, measured, premeditated. And me? I just… walked. Gracefully, I liked to imagine, purposefully, but not to the extremes of either of my parents.

I don't know why the Malfoy family home is called a manor, because it's very clearly a castle. It has none of the charm and whimsy that seems to emanate from Hogwarts, but is built from dark, sharply textured stone. The front of the house has three wide, short steps leading up to the door. The face of the castle is expansive, broad, and emotionless. There are two towers, one on either side of the front of the house matching the two at the back. Even the doors of the place are foreboding. They're tall and wide and polished within an inch of their life. My father, of course, was the first one to arrive at the castle. He hardly had time to step out of the entrance hall fireplace before a house elf appeared..

The wretched little creature bowed habitually and wrung his hands, squeaking, "Come in, sir, come in. Your bags will be dealt with. Right this way. Here, over here. The Malfoys are waiting with the other guests, sir, in the library. Here, sir, right over here." The house elf scurried backwards down the hallway, bent in a perpetual bow, and wringing his hands the whole time. "Over here." He had led us through a labyrinth of hallways, not especially narrow or low-ceilinged, but which still made me feel uneasy. The smooth stone floors were carpeted with richly colored oriental rugs, intricately woven with designs, but not illuminating the hallways with the intended coziness. The walls were lined with busts and portraits of family members and ancestors of the Malfoy clan. They glared down at me with a n evaluating stare. It would have been unsettling to any other almost-16-year-olds, or most other adults, even, but I was unimpressed. What did I have to hide from these pictures, this oil paint smeared on canvas, centuries-old echos of past power? Nothing. They should be impressed by the sense of purpose and the ambition found in this teenage girl.

The house elf stopped at a door identical to every other in the Malfoy manor, with the exception of one that leads into more stories than I have time for. The house elf stretched his bony arm out along the width of the door, and pushed it open soundlessly. He plodded into the room and bowed jerkily to Lucius Malfoy. "Master, the Conways." The house elf backed out of the library, still bowing, and closed the door silently behind – no, in front of – him.

Lucius's elbows were resting on the arms of an expsive-looking leather chair, and his fingers came together to form a point in front of his chest. He nodded at us three smugly and motioned to an empty couch. "Please, sit down." He had an irritating half-smile on his face, identical to the one I've seen his son wear hundreds of times. Somehow, though, it's grating on his father, but on Draco, it looks sexy.

My father nodded. "Of course, Lucius. So wonderful to be here again. The house is almost as remarkable as its inhabitants." Ah, my father, the king of flattery. But I suppose then that I must have learned from the best.

"Oh, don't flatter me, Augustus. We all know how my manor pales next to your estate." Oh, God. Not this pointless volley of stupid over-exaggerated compliments. This political tactic is tired. Put it to rest.

My father shifted at the other end of the antique sofa. He cleared his throat and said, "Come, now, let's stop this prattle and get to the shop talk. Your advisement to dear old Cornelius here on the matter of gerrymandering greatly troubled me. I had a different impression of your opinions on that matter."

Before Lucius could open his mouth to defend himself, Draco cut in, drawling, "Father, you know how this Ministry talk bores me. Can't Abigail and I go somewhere else?"

"_Dra_co!" Narcissa snapped in a hushed voice, flimsily slapping his arm, more to show that she had a handle on her child than to reprimand him. "Don't interrupt Father's business." She said this in a barely audible whisper, but very quickly.

"Well, if Abigail is bored, we shouldn't make our guest uncomfortable," he answered.

"Actually, I think that politics is fascinating. I'd much prefer to –"

Lucius cut me off. "What a delightful daughter you've reared, Alyssa! She has not only your beauty, but your tact and decorum. But you need not feign interest on my account, my dear," he said, his voice syrupy, in a revoltingly sweet voice. "Go off with Draco. Just behave yourselves."

Draco stood up and headed for the door. I followed suit. Once in the hall, he exhaled, and we headed off towards his suite. I managed to really look at him for the first time since arriving.

"Draco!" I was appalled. "What happened to your head?!"

He raised a hand self-consciously to touch the back of his hair. We passed an ancient mirror mounted on the wall and he bent down to look at his reflection in it. "You don't like it?" For some deluded reason, Draco had fashioned his silky platinum hair into a pompadour, akin to the ones worn by upper-class French women in the years leading up to the French Revolution.

"You look like Marie Antoinette, Draco," I told him. "I can't believe you were going to come to school like that." We had resumed walking and now reached his private suite. He unlocked and opened the door, and I followed just as he assumed I would. To my surprise, after I closed the door behind me, he took a pack of cigarettes from an end table and sat on the back of a sofa, lighting up.

"Where did you pick that habit up?"

"Well," he exhaled, a thin stream of smoke leaving his lips along with the words, "my parents sent me to London for a week, and after two days I couldn't stand the sight of Diagon Alley anymore. So I hung out on the Muggle side of the Leaky Cauldron and fell in with this group of Muggle kids who all did it. They really changed my whole, y'know, mindset. I should introduce you to them someday."

I sat down on the couch that draco was perched on. "Huh. Well," I said, comprehending all this, "if not now, when?"

"What, you think we should sneak out? There are no bloody windows in this house! It was built to withstand the fucking French army, woman!"

"No, I'm just saying that your parents were always looking for you and I to marry eventually, and they would be ecstatic at our spending more time together. Now let's go." I stood up and grabbed Draco by the arm, dragging him out the door.

He stumbled out into the corridor, locked his door, and ran his hand through his hair, fixing it – well, that's what he meant to do. It still looked good, of course, but in a disheveled sort of way. Then he said confidently, "Well, just let me do the talking, okay?"

"Pfft. Okay, Draco." We walked down the hallway and around corners, down stairs; I lost track of where we had come, but he halted abruptly outside of one door, and opened it.

"Father," he said loudly, striding into the room, "can Abigail and I spend the rest of the week in London?"

Lucius paused mid-sentence. If he said no and argued the point with his son, he would lose. This would not speak well of his abilities as an authority figure in front of some of his most valuable political allies. And anyway, I'm good-looking, and it's no secret that a marriage between the Conway and Malfoy families would be extremely valuable as far as politics went. So of course, he let us go.

"If not now, when?" – Hillel


End file.
